


In My Arms Lies Eternity

by WardenCommanderCousland



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Minor Cassandra Pentaghast/Varric Tethras, Minor Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Past Lavellan/Solas, Slow Burn, Spirit Cole (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-06-09 02:50:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15257787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WardenCommanderCousland/pseuds/WardenCommanderCousland
Summary: Inquisitor Lavellan's heart was broken on the eve of her showdown with Corypheus. As she struggles to pick up the pieces and chart a new course for the Inquisition, she finds that her Commander's flirtations were not as casual as she once thought.*Spoilers for DAI endgame and all DLC**on hold*





	1. Chapter 1

Muiri Lavellan rode ahead of her companion, kicking her Fereldan stallion until he whined in protest at being asked to run any faster. She dug her heels in and twisted the reins tighter over her hands. She trusted the horse to guide her, to be her eyes, as her own clouded with tears. How could she have been so blind?

He’d done nothing but pull away since the first time they kissed, dancing just on the edge of her grasp, speaking in riddles. Solas’s affection was never given freely, only reserved for the confines of her room at Skyhold. When he danced with her at Halamshiral, he insisted it was merely a kindness to anyone who glanced their way. Even earlier tonight, when they found the grove only a few miles from the castle, what she took for tenderness as he traced the feathery tendrils of her vallaslin only turned out to be another tale of how the Dalish were just children, one final hurt before pushing her away for good. Even as he broke her heart, he told her how beautiful and wonderful she was. But not enough to keep.

Her cheeks stung where Solas had removed the vallaslin, though it hadn’t hurt in the moment. She clenched her eyes shut, both to quell the pain and brace them against the strong wind that frequently cut across the bridge into Skyhold, the cold mountain air finding a path at any cost.

A porter was at the door, and she jumped off the horse, throwing the reins at the boy and turning her face away, allowing her red curls to cover where her vallaslin once cut dark lines across her fair skin. There would be questions, and she wasn’t ready to answer them yet.

“Vhenan,” Solas called softly as she cut through the castle yard. It was little more than a whisper, an afterthought.

Muiri circled the outer walls of the castle, taking the longest and least obvious route to her chambers, the one with the least chance of being seen. The hour was late, and most of the crowds populating the courtyard and gardens had moved indoors.

“Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide,” a voice drifted out towards the empty garden. Muiri stopped outside the castle’s makeshift chantry, her eyes adjusting to the dim candlelight within.

Cullen knelt before the statue of Andraste, one of the few artefacts the Chargers were able to rescue from Haven. Muiri winced at the sight, reminded again of the pain of their loss.

“I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond, for there is no darkness in the Maker’s light, and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.”

Muiri lingered in the doorway. She was intruding on something private, personal. These prayers, chants to another unhearing, uncaring god were foreign to her, felt as futile as the entreaties to the silent Evanuris, and yet so many believed. Cullen, even after the hardships she’d put him through, still believed, still found himself here.

“A prayer for you?” Muiri asked as he moved to stand. She cautiously stepped further into the chantry, pushing her hair away from her face, feeling the tangles catch on her fingers. Her curls were unruly on the best of days, and mad sprints through mountain winds did nothing to improve the situation.

“For those we have lost,” Cullen said, touching his hand to the base of the statue. “And…those I am afraid to lose.”

She hesitated. There had always been a casual flirtation between them, but Cullen always pulled back, claiming he’d heard rumors of her involvement with someone else. “I’m glad you haven’t lost your faith,” she said finally.

Cullen rose, brushing the dust from his knees. “I’ve questioned it at times, but I’ve found comfort in faith when life offered little. Corypheus will retaliate, it’s only a matter of time. We must draw strength wherever we can.” He turned to face her. Concern was etched across his features, though a question flashed through his eyes.

Cullen headed for the door, stopping to touch her shoulder. “When the time comes, you will be thrown into his path again.”

“Cullen,” Muiri whispered. She raised her hand to cover his. It felt warm and rough, so different from Solas’s slender fingers, smooth and delicate as porcelain. Cullen’s were worn, with years of swordsmanship wearing them down.

He sighed deeply, shutting his eyes. “Andraste preserve me, I must send you to him.”

She pulled away. “There’s nothing to worry about. If you ask Varric, I have divinely bad luck on my side.”

“That’s not as comforting as you might think,” Cullen said, trying to suppress a chuckled. He dropped his hand, fishing in his pocket. When he pulled it out again, a Ferelden-stamped silver coin was resting on his palm. “I’ve carried this with me for luck since I left for Templar training. You should have it.”

“I don’t want your luck to run out,” Muiri said, pushing his hand away.

Cullen clasped his free hand over hers, pulling her palm to his. “You’ll need it more in the coming days than I will. Return it to me when we win. If you have it, whatever happens, you will come back.”

Muiri drew the coin up into her fist. She needed to focus on Corypheus, on the looming battle ahead, but all she could think of was the pain coursing through her soul from this night, twisting through her organs like a million tiny cuts from her daggers. She hadn’t planned to make this detour, and she feared what she’d do if she stayed.

“I certainly hope so,” she said, following Cullen out into the night. The moon glowed full over the garden, casting a pale shine on the numerous herbs that kept her armies in fighting health. To be standing out here with the commander.

No, she told herself, fighting an urge to shake her head. You’re hurting. These feelings aren’t real. You just want arms to hold you, lips to touch your own. Muiri needed space, and she needed it now.

“It looks like someone is waiting for you,” Cullen said softly, tilting his head towards the far end of the garden. Half-cloaked in shadow, Solas was seated in one of the castle arches, idly flipping through a book, as though the events of the previous hours hadn’t occurred, or if they had, meant nothing.

“Thank you, Cullen,” Muiri said, tucking the coin into a pocket along the waist of her leggings. The metal circle was warm from being clenched in their hands and its solid pressure felt strangely reassuring against her hip, reminding her of a time before the Inquisition when she’d simply shove daggers in her belt.

She watched his armored form cross the garden and slip through the doorway into the main courtyard. A smirk crossed her face as she entertained the memory of the Inquisition’s commander without the armor, the result of several misjudged bets in a game of Wicked Grace. She’d looked away then. She wasn’t so sure she’d be able to now.

Solas looked up from his book as she approached him. “Are you having a pleasant evening, Inquisitor?” He plucked a sprig of vandal aria from the pot beneath him and marked his page, closing the volume with a soft thud. “I was not aware that you had taken up Andrastianism.”

Muiri scowled, feeling the sting return to her cheeks. “I haven’t. I heard Cullen praying, that’s all.”

“Prayer is good,” the bald elf said, swinging his legs away from her, towards the stone floor. “Any ritual that prepares us mentally for the challenges ahead is a worthy pursuit. You should prepare as well, Inquisitor.”

Rage built up inside her. She thought she was going to be fine, but the last thing she needed was Solas acting like this. “Don’t act like you care how this ends for me,” she spat.

Solas stopped and turned. His eyes were cold. “What happens to you happens to all of Thedas. I did not lie when I said I cared for you, and I am not lying now. Do not allow your emotions, whatever resentment you harbor towards me, to affect your mission. I distracted you from your purpose for too long, and I can see that I am still. Good night, Inquisitor.”

If he could, Solas would have stalked away, but Muiri had never known him to make a sound while moving. He was a wolf, silently slipping through the woods around a camp, waiting for the moment to strike. The kind her clan had always warded against.

Muiri climbed the stairs along the outer walls of the castle and pulled herself up onto the balcony below her own chambers. From this room she could sneak through the tower undetected. She didn’t want to see anyone else this night.


	2. Chapter 2

The victory felt hollow. The ride to Haven, the battle with Corypheus, the endless running through the ever-rising Temple, the final thrust into the Fade, it all felt meaningless. She could feel his eyes on her back the entire time. Solas constantly hovering in the background, judging her every movement. And that last look, when she shattered the orb.

It felt oddly poignant, given the events of recent days.

So as she stood in Skyhold’s Great Hall, casting a glance over the revelers, she decided she’d had enough celebration for tonight. This was for everyone else. She needed to get out.

Leliana’s agents were chasing Solas, but Muiri was half-tempted to ask her to call them off. She didn’t know what they were looking for, or why. The part of her heart that once was consumed by him felt empty, useless. All of her felt empty and useless, now that Corypheus was defeated. The Inquisition would have no more use for her.

Varric had tried to console her as they rode back from the Temple, cracking jokes and reciting anticipated passages from the book he still insisted upon calling _This Shit is Weird: The Inquisitor Lavellan Story_. It wasn’t helping. Soon all Thedas would know how callously Inquisitor Muiri Lavellan was dumped. She made a note to tell Varric to leave that out, under penalty of a very stabby death.

She leaned on the door one final time. She’d managed to catch a servant and request a bath before the party got too busy, and now that spirits were high, she’d be able to slip away unnoticed. All she wanted was to scour herself clean, and pretend that it might reach down into her soul.

The water was perfectly warm and had been scented with sandalwood. Muiri never found out how the staff knew she loved the smell, but she suspected Leliana had something to do with it. She undressed quickly and slid her nude body beneath the surface, first to her waist, then her shoulders, and finally, after adjusting for several minutes, dipped her head below the surface.

The water enveloped her, lifting away physical and mental grime, working its way into her skin and sinking down into the muscles in her arms, legs, back. Muiri imagined it spreading through her, slowly spreading the compressed pieces of her apart, finding the rough and broken edges and wearing them smooth, the way the sea did with broken glass. She was broken glass, letting herself be tossed through the perfumed water, hoping she could come out the other side opaque and worn. A treasure for someone else.

She thought briefly to her reception upon the return to Skyhold. Varric and Cassandra lingered, for once holding their interpersonal sniping to when she was out of earshot, and rode with her behind the pack. It was a strange mirror to her first day in Haven, when Cassandra led her to the breach, then a prisoner, now a hero. They held her back long enough for her advisors to throw the party together and receive her on the steps to Skyhold much like they had when they named her Inquisitor, only this time Cullen was on the landing as well. For a moment, it looked as though he was going to embrace Muiri, but settled for merely shaking her hand.

There was knocking. Muiri set her hands on the edges of the tub and slowly pulled herself from her watery hideaway. “Who is it?” she asked, not bothering to conceal her irritation. She should have asked a guard to block the door.

The door cracked revealing only strawberry blonde hair, braided into a bun. “Sorry to intrude, Inquisitor, but I thought you might like some company.” Scout Harding hovered in the doorway.

“I’m bathing,” Muiri muttered, lowering herself until only her head was above the water.

Harding entered the room, closing the door quietly behind her. “It’s not like I’ve never seen it before. Not you, I mean, but a naked person. And you’ve looked so sad lately, I thought maybe you’d want someone to talk to.”

Muiri heard the scraping sounds of a stool dragging across the wooden floor. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Harding positioning herself with her back to the tub, respecting her privacy. “I don’t really feel like talking, Scout Harding.”

“That’s ok. I can talk, and you can just listen if you want.” Harding leaned her shoulders against the tub’s edge. The bath’s steam curled the few loose tendrils that escaped her signature braid. “I thought someone should come check on you, and I wasn’t sure who here actually would.”

Muiri slid further down, letting the water pool just under her nose. Harding wasn’t wrong. She had few in the Inquisition that she actually counted as friends. Varric, certainly, and probably Blackwall, though he was too reverent for her tastes. Dorian treated her more as a source of amusement. The Iron Bull had been distant since they rescued the dreadnaught, still approving of her actions and sharing Ben-Hassrath insights but it wasn’t friendship. Cassandra had never warmed to her, particularly after their drunken shouting match in the armory, and Sera…well, the less said about her the better. Muiri would continue to tolerate her presence as long as her “friends” didn’t cause trouble. Vivienne merely stayed for the Game.

Perhaps Josephine. Muiri always let the ambassador unload to her, maybe she could do the same. She definitely wouldn’t trust Leliana with her secrets. Too much of a chance for it to be used against her, and the spymaster’s days with the Inquisition were numbered anyway, now that she was named Divine.

Muiri had a nagging feeling at the back of her mind that she was forgetting someone, but couldn’t put her finger on who.

She’d always turned to Solas when she needed comfort or to unload her thoughts. He’d listened, provided advice and input, soothed her concerns. And now he was gone.

“It’s hard losing the people you love,” Harding said finally. Her shoulders tensed and relaxed, releasing a sigh. “I had...more than a boyfriend but we weren’t betrothed or anything, not yet. He worked for Arl Tegan’s family, as a courier. Unusual for a surface dwarf, but it suited him. He was able to travel and ride. It’s how I learned so much about Ferelden and Orlais, even though I never left Redcliffe until I joined the Inquisition.” She paused for a moment, peeking over her shoulder at Muiri. She avoided Harding’s eyes and the dwarf turned away. “He was killed on the road, caught between mages and Templars.”

“I’m sorry,” Muiri said flatly, silently wishing for Harding to go away. She wanted to wallow and the bathwater was steadily cooling.

Harding sighed again. “It’s okay. Sometimes I wondered if I was settling for him. Most of the dwarves around Redcliffe are carta or Merchant’s Guild, and I didn’t want either of those lives. But we grew up together, and I’d know him all my life. When he died, it felt like everything in my life had come apart, so when I heard the Inquisition was coming through and recruiting, I joined up.”

She stood up. “Anyway, I know it’s not the same as what you’re going through, but I wanted you to know I understand and if you just need someone to listen...well...you know where to find me.”

Harding’s steps moved towards the door. Muiri heard her hand touch the knob. “Thank you, Scout Harding,” she said as she heard the heavy wood of the door break free from its frame.

“Lace. You can call me Lace,” she said. The door swung home and Muiri once again found herself alone in the bath. She took another deep breath and slipped below the surface for a few minutes longer.


	3. Chapter 3

It had been a lonely night. Muiri had tossed and turned, trying to drown out the sounds of the party below with her pillows and fingers in her ears. She’d even briefly resorted to closing the windows and doors she normally left open, but the room soon became stuffy and she had to relent. Skyhold didn’t fall silent until pink streaks of dawn were reaching above the castle rooftops. By then, Muiri had given up on sleep, choosing instead to watch the morning as it slowly broke over the Frostbacks. Thedas went on, even though she no longer had a purpose in it.

She shivered against the morning air and turned back into her room. She still felt hollow, uncertain of what to do next. Fade rifts remained, surely, and now there was time to deal with the matters of that earthquake in the lyrium mine and meet with that professor from Orlais. But it felt trivial, meaningless. For the last two years she’d been chasing Corypheus and now she had no idea what to do.

Cullen’s coin lay on her nightstand, unmoved from where she’d set it last night before her futile attempts to sleep. The Commander was an early riser. He’d be awake and at work by now, if he went to bed at all. Muiri was half-convinced that her advisors never slept, though only Josephine ever the dark shadows under her eyes to suggest it. Her hand closed around the coin, sealing her decision to return it.

She loved when the castle was quiet, echoes of half-murmurs in the morning as servants tried to keep from disrupting Skyhold’s occupants. Several elves nodded at Muiri as she made her way through the tower and great hall. She headed towards Cullen’s office without a thought, but found herself frozen in Solas’s parlor, gazing at the murals depicting the story of the Inquisition. She’d never studied them closely, preferring to harness the attention of the artist, but she walked along the walls, taking in the detail.

One detail stopped her. Yes, Solas had drawn her into every panel of the massive triptych but he had drawn her without the vallaslin. Muiri’s hand clenched around the coin, the ridges on its side digging into her palm. Had he planned it that long ago? Known that some day he would convince her to remove it from her face? Or did he draw her that way because he saw her as someone free from the Evanuris, free to dedicate herself as she saw fit?

A slamming door in the library above shook her from her fixation on the mural and she moved on, bracing herself for the dew that would surely cover the bridge to the ramparts this early in the morning. The parapets were too low to catch her if she slipped off the side, so caution was necessary.

As predicted, Cullen’s door was open and he was at his desk. “Just leave it on the table,” he said as she pushed the door open further. Muiri blinked, but set her hand over the small end table next to the door. “Oh Inq--Inquisitor! I wasn’t expecting you.”

He pushed back from the desk and smoothed the wrinkles from his shirt, frowning at a wine stain near his waist. From last night’s party, perhaps? “Forgive me,” he said looking up. “I didn’t mean for you to see me like this.” His curly, blonde hair was sticking up on one side and his chin was rough with stubble, though the growth was bare around the scar stretching above his lip.

Muiri wondered briefly how the scar would feel against her own lips, but shook her head to push the thought away. “I just wanted to return this to you,” she said and extended her hand to reveal the coin.

For a moment, Muiri thought she saw a blush cross the commander’s face, but as he drew closer it was pale as always. “You didn’t have to,” he said, taking the silver from her and pocketing it. His breath had the faint sweet smell of past drink, but not one of over indulgence. And while his appearance was less than pristine, Cullen’s eyes were as sharp as ever.

“Corypheus is gone,” Muiri said, trying to sound indifferent. “I can’t imagine I’ll need that much luck for what remains.” She cast her eyes away, to the hook where Cullen’s sword belt hung waiting. She tried not to think of the dozens of times he’d rested his hand on it in the war room. Muiri had always found the gesture slightly phallic, but resisted comment. The war room was for important measures; she let Leliana and Josephine tease Cullen for her.

They stood there awkwardly for a moment, each avoiding the other’s gaze. Cullen cleared his throat. “If you’ll, ah, allow me a moment, I’ll walk back to the hall with you. It must nearly be time for them to start serving breakfast.”

“If anyone else is even awake,” Muiri muttered as Cullen excused himself and climbed the ladder to his room.

She cast her eyes up the open hatch. She could hear Cullen digging in a trunk, likely hunting for a clean shirt. “Are you ever going to get that roof fixed?” she called up the ladder, trying to break the silence.

Cullen appeared back at the top of the ladder, tucking a crisp linen shirt into his breeches. “I directed the crew’s efforts elsewhere. It was more important to have the troops sleeping under actual roofs when we first arrived.” He glanced back over his shoulder at the gaping hole. “I tried to thatch it once, but a storm blew through it and I haven’t had time since.”

He climbed back down the ladder and began to reach for his coat and breastplate. Muiri arched an eyebrow. “Cullen, we’re going to breakfast, not war.”

Cullen dropped his arm with a chuckle. “Clearly you haven’t eaten with Sera or the Iron Bull. Every meal is like a battle when either of them are around. But I see your point.” He wrapped his hand around the iron pull bar and gestured for Muiri to lead the way.

“Do you always eat this early?” she asked as they crossed the dew-slicked flagstones on the bridge. Muiri held her arms out gingerly, trying to keep balance like she did on fallen tree limbs as a child.

Cullen’s steps were slower, more determined, the flat-footed certainty of a man who’d spent nearly two decades in armor. “Generally, yes,” he said, carefully setting his foot so that his boot’s heel wedged itself in the gap between stones. “But I usually have it brought to me. The last time I ate in the castle was when we returned from Adamant.”

Muiri remembered that morning. They had traveled through the night, not wanting to stop, and arrived at Skyhold just as the staff were setting out the first platters of the morning. Varric had been taciturn the entire ride, silently mourning Hawke. She was still agonizing over every moment in the fade, from the fall into the abyss to bickering with Solas to the Nightmare’s taunts and the escape from that massive, blasted spider. The food had no taste that morning, and she had barely choked any down before crawling back to sleep.

Muiri and Cullen were nearly across the bridge when the commander’s measured plan failed him. The mortar between two of the stones was thicker there than other points and as he set his foot down he slid forward. He flung his arms ahead of him, catching Muiri and slamming them both into the closed door to Solas’s parlor. Muiri gasped as air flew out of her lungs upon impact, her brain suddenly firing in every direction, processing the stone in front of her and the warm weight of Cullen at her back.

“I am so sorry,” Cullen said, pushing himself away from her and brushing his hands against his breeches. He winced and pulled his right hand away to reveal a large, bleeding scrape outlined by a rapidly blooming bruise.

Muiri was still stunned but stepped back from the wall. She could feel the angry ghosts of bruises yet to come protesting against her cheek, shoulders and hips, but was otherwise unharmed. She turned to Cullen and took his injured hand. “I can fix this,” she said, clasping her hand loosely around his wrist, leading him inside. Fire shot through her veins, coursing heat through where her hand touched his skin. Muiri thanked the Evanuris that she wasn’t a mage, for she surely would have set them both aflame.

“Are you okay?” Cullen asked as they entered the parlor. Muiri dropped his hand, still feeling the fire coursing through her own as she began rifling through the piles on Solas’s desk. He had treated many of her minor wounds in this room, whispering soothing words in her ear in the process. She shook away the memory.

“I’ve had worse,” she said, locating her quarry. “I’ll be fine.” She pulled out a small healer’s kit and opened it, inspecting the contents. The poultice smelled awful, but in an astringent way as opposed to one that would indicate that it had gone bad, and the bandages were clean. There were some whole elfroots as well. She gestured  “Give me your hand.”

Cullen held out his hand, palm facing the ceiling. He winced and sucked in a breath as Muiri cleaned his hand with water from her skin and applied the poultice to the open wound. She looked up. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Cullen said through clenched teeth. “I forgot how much that stings without…”

“Without lyrium?” Muiri asked, dropping his hand to unwind the bandage. Cullen clasped his free hand around his wrist, holding the offending hand away from her. She cut the bandage to size with her dagger and held it out to him. “Does it numb the pain?”

Cullen shook his head, returning his hand to her. “No, lyrium just makes it easier to ignore it. You can push through, focus on your abilities, and pain isn’t a distraction…” He trailed off, his gaze drifting towards the desk next to them. Muiri glanced down, spying two corked vials peeking out from an overturned book, the blue liquid glittering within. Of course Solas kept lyrium.

Muiri tied off the bandage. “Do you want--”

“No,” Cullen said sharply, pulling his hand away. He paused and took a breath. “I know we talked about this before, and you gave me leave to take it again but…”

“I also said you could stop if it was that important to you,” Muiri said, picking up the vials. She tucked them in her pocket. “Ser Barris can make use of these. The Templars will still have need of it.”

“Thank you,” Cullen said quietly, watching the vials vanish into her pocket.

“Come,” Muiri said, tilting her head towards the door. “Food will help.”

She was nearly at the door to the great hall when Cullen cleared his throat. “Inquisitor?”

“Yes?”

He was still standing at Solas’s desk. “Given the, er, recent events, I thought it might be a good day to um…”

“What?”

“I haven’t played chess in a few weeks,” Cullen said. He gestured to his hand, “and I doubt I’ll be any use holding a sword today. Would you like to play a game later today? After you attend to your other duties, of course?”

Muiri smiled. “Are you actually taking a break?”

An embarrassed flush crept across Cullen’s face with a small smile of his own. “It would appear so.”


	4. Chapter 4

Varric snapped his fingers for a third time, this time next to Muiri’s ear. “Hey, earth to Thorny.” Finally, she blinked and set down the spoon she’d been holding over her porridge for the last several minutes.

“Sorry,” she murmured, looking down at the cooling lumps in her bowl.

“Welcome back, Your Inquisitorialness,” Varric said, hopping into the chair next to her. He studied her for a second. “Please tell me the other guy looks worse.”

“What?”

“Your face, Thorny. That’s one heck of a bruise.” Varric scowled in frustration as he reached for the serving bowl, just beyond his reach. “I can only assume you got into a fight with _someone_ , though Maker knows how or when, since you didn’t have that last night.”

Muiri touched her cheek, wincing at the pain that shot through her face as her fingertips rested on the bone. With her other hand, she pulled the porridge bowl closer to Varric. “I slipped.”

Varric took the ladle and began scooping the steaming cereal into his own bowl. Once it was full, he began scooping raisins out with his finger and flicking them towards Muiri. “Sweetheart, I have heard that excuse at least a hundred thousand times from Hawke alone. Only way you got that shiner from ‘slipping’ is if you ‘slipped’ head-on into the castle.”

He cast his eyes around the room, coming to rest on Cullen, who was deep in conversation with one of his lieutenants a few tables away. “Oh, come on Thorny. I know Chuckles ditched you in the most undignified way possible, but getting rough with _Curly_?”

Muiri pushed her cold bowl away and began playing with the pile of raisins on her napkin. “Nothing happened.”

“Right. I’m sure _nothing_ is under that bandage like I’m sure _nothing_ caused that bruise on your face.” Another bite, followed by a sardonic grin. “Look, I’m not saying I disapprove. Curly is so tightly wound it might require a blowjob from Andraste herself for him to relax, and I know how much you haven’t been getting, but it’s only been a few weeks since since you and Chuckles broke up and you’ve spent most of last night trying to drown yourself in a bathtub.”

“How do you know all this?” Muiri searched the room for Harding, who was conspicuously absent from breakfast. She’d have to make a trip down to the Herald’s Rest to find the gossiping scout.

Varric rolled his eyes. “Sweetheart, I’ve sat outside of Chuckles’s door for the last year and a half. I have heard all of your conversations and arguments. Plus, the Kid tells me everything because no one bothered to tell him the importance of not oversharing.”

“The Kid?”

Varric eyed her carefully. “You have no idea who I’m talking about, do you?”

“Is he one of the servants?”

“Forget it.” Varric finished the remaining porridge in his bowl. “If you really need to blow off steam, please don’t do it with Curly right now. He’s been staring at you with puppy eyes since the day you closed the Breach in Haven. Trust me on this one, it won’t be healthy for either of you.”

Muiri pushed back from the table. “I’m not doing anything with Cullen, I promise.”

“Read a book instead,” Varric said. “Borrow something from Cassandra’s collection.”

Muiri looked down at the dwarf, who was setting a sheaf of papers on the table next to his empty bowl. “Cassandra hates me.”

“The Seeker’s rough around the edges, she’s hurting about not being named Divine and she isn’t happy that you didn’t take the Inquisition in a way that she would have, but she doesn’t hate you.” Varric turned and patted Muiri’s elbow. “Be polite, Thorny. Ask her nicely. She’ll say yes.”

“All right,” Muiri said. She brushed her red curls forward, covering her cheek and headed for Skyhold’s courtyard. It was still early, but the Inquisition’s troops had begun to assemble for training. Cassandra was handing out new swords from the armory. Muiri skirted the lines, tracing her way along the walls until she reached the armory door.

Cassandra handed the last of the newly forged swords to a waiting soldier. “Can I help you, Inquisitor? Surely you have better things to do than talk to me.”

Muiri twisted her fingers together. “I was wondering if I could borrow a book.”

“There is a library in the castle,” Cassandra said stiffly, not looking at her. She walked back into the armory, and Muiri followed cautiously. The Seeker began appraising the shields that the blacksmith’s assistant was setting onto a table to cool.

“I know that.” Muiri took a deep breath. “But Varric suggested that you might have something I’d be interested in reading.”

Cassandra made a disgusted sound, one Muiri had heard made in direction countless times since first meeting Cassandra in Haven. She braced herself, straightened her posture and clasped her hands together behind her back, mimicking the posture that the Inquisitions’ troops held when they awaited orders.  “I’m sorry.”

“What?” The Seeker turned around and studied Muiri. There was something in her gaze that always made her feel so small, so insignificant.

“I’m sorry,” Muiri repeated. “I know you disagreed with the Templars’ conscription and the fact that I allowed the Grey Wardens to join the Inquisition and I let Calpernia get away. You hate that you believe your Maker sent an elf to lead this Inquisition, and all I’ve done is rub how ‘elfy’ I am in your face. I’m sorry I dismissed your concerns about the Seekers, even after what we found at Caer Oswin.”

Cassandra’s expression remained steely, but Muiri pressed on. “I’m sorry I insulted your Chantry. I’m sorry I insulted you for believing that spirit in the Fade actually was Justinia.  And I’m sorry I didn’t say anything to the Revered Mothers when they came asking for my input into the Divine Election.”

Cassandra was still silent, and turned her head away again. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft and felt as though it was coming from much further away. “You said you wanted to borrow a book?”

Muiri nodded and followed the Seeker up the stairs to where her solitary bedroll was laid out, two towers of books stacked behind it. One lay open beside the roll and Cassandra quickly flipped the cover shut with her toe. “The left stack is poetry, the right is novels.”

Muiri sat on the floor and traced a finger along the spines composing the tower of novels. Half the titles were attributed to Varric. She glanced back at Cassandra, who was pacing the loft. Finally, she grabbed the one from the top of the pile and made her way wordlessly down the stairs.

“Inquisitor.” Muiri turned at the bottom of the stairs to see Cassandra looming over her, though still not looking at her. “I want you to know, I have no regrets. The Inquisition may not have followed the path I would have led it down, but it still served the purpose we set out to achieve.”

She paused for a moment, glanced back at the stacks of books and added, “and don’t tell Varric what you found.”

~

The sun was burning away the dew and it cut through the cold mountain air. Muiri walked along the parapet towards Cullen’s office. The doors and windows were all open to admit the breeze. Cullen always kept at least one window or door open when he was in his office. Having them all open was odd, even with the warm sunshine.

She found Cullen in a deep discussion with Michel de Chevin. They both turned to see her enter, and Michel excused himself, citing an appointment with Josephine. Cullen shook his head as Michel left; he hadn’t wanted to allow Michel to return to Emperor Gaspard’s court, but Leliana and Josephine overruled him.

“Do you have some time?” Muiri asked, tucking Cassandra’s book under her arm. She leaned in the doorway, letting her eyes adjust to the dim office light.

Cullen smiled as he looked down towards his desk. It wasn’t his usual smirk, but a softer, shyer smile that seemed to be more for himself than anyone else. “I believe I’ve done enough work for today.” He reached into his desk to pull out the chessboard. “I was thinking we could take advantage of the warm day and play in the garden again. Unless you wanted to stay here?”

“The garden sounds lovely.” Muiri agreed.

It was unsurprisingly busy in the garden, with many of Skyhold’s attending nobles taking turns through the meditative paths and loitering in the alcoves. Cullen was able to clear a pavilion of gambling scouts with a glowering look and they set the board on the table within.

“Your responsibilities didn’t take long,” Cullen remarked, making his first move.

Muiri set a pawn directly across from his. “I left breakfast before Josephine could find me, so I didn’t have any.”

Cullen laughed. “A wise decision. What did you do with your time then?”

Muiri reached down and picked up the book resting next to her foot. “Varric recommended I take the morning off and read, so I borrowed this from Cassandra. I haven’t started it yet.”

Cullen reached across the board and took the book from her. When he read the title, he laughed. “This one made the rounds through Kinloch hold. I’m fairly certain every woman in the tower read it at some point, mage and Templar alike.”

“Have you read it?” Muiri asked.

“ _The Rose of Orlais_?” Cullen shook his head before resting it on his fist and considering his next move. “No. Not entirely. I once read parts of it to an apprentice when she had taken ill. I was chastised for being too friendly towards my charges for that.”

Muiri slid a piece across the board, capturing one of Cullen’s pawns. “Did you read it to Solana Amell?”

Cullen blushed and dropped the piece he was planning to move. It rolled across the stone table and landed in his lap. “You know about that,” he said quietly.

“I overheard you asking Leliana about her once.” Muiri said. “I knew the Hero of Ferelden was a mage, but I didn’t realize you knew her until then.”

“More than I should have,” Cullen said, placing the piece back on the board. “It was forbidden, but I was young and thought I knew better. She was...she loved to read. Solana was always in the Circle’s library. I thought she had the most beautiful hair.” The flush on his face spread.

Muiri studied the board. Chess was not her game and the only reason she won the last time they played was because Dorian kept miming moves to her from across the garden. She didn’t feel any remorse for cheating then, but she felt the need to play fair this time. She hesitated before placing another piece and winced as Cullen swiftly captured it.

“Did you keep in touch with her, after she left?”

Cullen shook his head. “I couldn’t. I was too angry with her over the circumstances that led up to her conscription. She was trying to help a blood mage and an initiate escape the tower. And the next time I saw her...well…”

“Oh,” Muiri quickly lost two more pieces. Cullen’s blush was slowly replaced with the shy smile as their game continued in silence.

Finally, Cullen set a knight close to Muiri’s king. “I believe that is checkmate, Inquisitor.”

"You don’t have to call me that anymore,” Muiri said, tapping the crowned stone pillar and knocking it down in defeat. “There isn’t much purpose to the Inquisition now that Corypheus is dead.”

Cullen picked up the king and considered it. “There are still rifts out there, and I’m sure factions of rebel mages and Red Templars that are carrying on the fight in Corypheus’s name, not to mention the matters in the Deep Roads and with the Avvar. And there is still the matter of rebuilding the Chantry -- if that’s something you want.”

Muiri leaned back and surveyed the garden. As she did so, a dwarf she didn’t recognize cautiously approached her. “Excuse me, I don’t know who to talk to. They told me to look for the Commander, but he’s not with the army.”

Cullen pushed back from the chair, wincing at the pressure on his bruised palm. “What is it?”

The dwarf gripped the pavilion’s pillar. “Forgive me. It’s so high here.” She wrenched her eyes shut and took a deep breath. “I’m Rat, Sutherland’s squire.”

“Sutherland?” Muiri glanced sidelong at Cullen. “Is his company all right?”

Rat took another deep breath. “I was following and...they were taken. They said to come here with a map if there was trouble. That Commander Cullen would help. You’ll help right?”

She kept one arm clasped tightly around the pillar, but reached the other towards Muiri and Cullen with a rolled parchment in the other. “I don’t know what to do.”

Muiri took the map and handed it to the Commander. “Cullen, take this to the war room and see if you can match this map to the one there. And have Leliana send word to her scouts to begin a search. I’ll take Rat to…” Hrm. Varric made his disdain for Orzammar dwarves known. Not a good choice. And if Rat found the garden terrifying, Dagna’s undercroft and its view of the canyon would probably send the girl into shock. “To Harding. She’s complained about heights before, she’ll know what to do.”

Cullen took the map, letting his fingers brush Muiri’s briefly before departing. She watched him leave for a moment before returning to the terrified dwarf and slowly prying her hands from the stone pillar.


	5. Chapter 5

_“What I must tell you…the truth.” The waterfall was splashing a fine mist around the glade. Muiri’s skin tingled, though she attributed it more to the way her fingers laced through Solas’s than the frailty of the Veil in this place. “Your face, the vallaslin.”_

_Muiri turned to face him, confused. “They’re meant to honor the elven gods.” She could remember the day she received her own, choosing the feathery waves that represented Mythal. Ironic, now, given her reluctance to drink from the Well of Sorrows._

_“That is what I wanted to tell you. In my journeys in the Fade, I’ve seen things and discovered what those marks mean.” Solas shook his head and turned away from her. “They are slave markings, or at least they were in the time of Arlathan.”_

_“My clan’s keeper said they honored the gods. These are their symbols.” Symbols she’d worn with pride. Muiri felt doubt building as Solas regarded her anew. She’d faced down Mythal herself wearing the markings honoring her; the witch was not impressed._

_“Yes, that’s right.” Solas ran his thumb across the line cutting her cheekbone. “A noble would mark his slaves to honor the god he worshipped. After Arlathan fell, the Dalish forgot.”_

_Muiri pulled away from him, recoiling from his touch. “Why would you say that?”_

_“Because it’s true.”_

_“Bullshit!” she yelled, stabbing a finger into his chest. “That’s bullshit! Is there anything in this world you won’t tear down just to prove how smart you are? Why would you tell me this?”_

_Solas scowled at her, a face she’d seen dozens of times. This time she was too angry to feel hurt. “Because you deserve better!” His face softened, and he took her hands again. “I didn’t tell you this to hurt you. If you like, I know a spell. I can remove the vallaslin.”_

_Muiri touched her face again. “If what you’re saying is true…I would never submit to slavery.”_

_“I know. I’m so sorry for causing you pain.” Solas kissed her forehead. “It was selfish of me. I look at you, and I see what you truly are. And you deserve better than what those cruel marks represent.”_

_She reached for Solas. “Remove them.”_

_“Sit.” His hands floated over her face and she could feel the lines, etched not so long ago, pulling away. It was as soft as dropping a lover’s hand, not painful as it was when she gained them. “Ar lasa mala revas. You are free.” He embraced her, whispering once again how beautiful she was into her ear, before pulling her into a deep kiss._

_“I am sorry. I distracted you from your duty. It will never happen again.” Solas dropped his arms and walked away._

_“Wait. What?” It was Muiri’s turn to grab him. Solas avoided her eyes._

_“I’m sorry, I should have ended this long before. I never wanted to hurt you.”_

_Muiri shoved him backwards into the waterfall pool. “Banal’abelas, banal’vhenan.”_

_“Vhenan.”_

_“Don’t.” She turned on her heel and stalked to the edge of the glade where her horse was waiting._

Shaking the memory from her mind, Muiri grabbed another dagger from the sack at her feet. She passed it from palm to palm, carefully measuring the weight and balance in her mind. Satisfied with the blade’s heft, she gripped it once again in her right hand, raised her arm level with her shoulder, and threw the blade. A second later it struck Cassandra’s abandoned training dummy directly between its painted-on eyes.

She’d been in the courtyard since she could reasonably argue that it was dawn, after another sleepless night. Her dreams during what little sleep she got left her with the feeling of being watched. In more than one, she thought she spotted a wolf out of the corner of her eye, but it was gone when she took a closer look. The sun was now inching towards midday and its light was slowly melting the overnight frost.

Muiri knew where the barrel of daggers was hidden, though she couldn’t remember how or why she knew it was there in the first place. She assumed that she’d come across it in her first few days at Skyhold, when everything was a mess, but she sought it out whenever she needed to hit something. The bag she’d filled when she first ventured out was nearly empty, its contents sticking out of dummies and littering the grass in the courtyard. Muiri reached for her next projectile.

“Rough night?”

Muiri jumped, dragging her finger across the edge of a blade as she yanked her hand from the sack. A line of blood began pooling on her skin, and she stuck the finger in her mouth in an attempt to stem the flow. She turned to see Scout Harding brushing half-melted ice from her trousers.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“When was the last time you were in Skyhold more than two days in a row?” Harding asked, studying the scene before her.

Muiri shrugged. She’d never had a need to stay, choosing instead to blow through like a storm, lingering long enough to seek counsel from her advisors, requisition new armor or weapons from Harritt and Dagna, and judge prisoners in the Inquisition’s custody. “Before Halamshiral,” she said finally.

It was better on the road. In Skyhold, people held her in too high of regard, expected her to be composed and pristine. The stone walls were confining, the noble gazes stifling. And it wasn’t like she needed to come home; more often than not, Solas went with her. Sometimes at his choosing, sometimes at hers. Kisses were easier to steal on the road. Cold southern nights were warmer in his arms. The last trip was painful, the three-day ride through the mountains to Haven, Solas close enough to touch but further away than ever. And then he was gone, taking the cracked pieces of the orb with him. It hadn’t felt right to leave since.

Instead, she was waiting around the castle and starting to itch from the confinement. Muiri had been in Skyhold nearly two weeks, following the effort to recover Sutherland’s company. Cullen and Muiri spent hours scrutinizing scouting reports, moving stone pawns on the war table’s great map, and sending ravens and runners dictating their next moves.

There was also the matter of Blackwall. Muiri wanted to be present when the Grey Wardens came to collect him, to say good-bye. She owed him that much, especially given his resentment towards the underhanded manner in which she recovered him from Val Royeaux. He’d been a loyal sword at her side since he joined the Inquisition, supporting her even when he believed she was wrong.

“Well, the lift into the Deep Roads is almost ready,” Harding said, coming to attention. “We can head for the Storm Coast by the end of the week.”

“Inquisitor Lavellan to the rescue,” Muiri said, examining the still-flowing blood on her finger. It had slowed, but a trail was streaking down her hand. “Again.”

“It’s why we love you.” Harding picked up the sack and held it open.  “Come on. Let’s clean this up and get the surgeon to sew up that cut.” She shook the sack again, watching Muiri expectantly. She sighed and headed towards the pile of daggers in the grass.

The surgeon was tending to a group of recently returned scouts just inside the gate, and she shook her head at Muiri and Harding as they approached but examined Muiri’s finger anyway. “It needs a stitch, but you’ll have to get in line, Inquisitor. I’ve got dragon burns, stab wounds, and a templar in lyrium shakes to deal with first.” She jutted her head to the templar in question. Cullen was seated at the bench next to the foot solider, talking to him quietly. Muiri watched him for a moment, turning away quickly when he glanced her way and smiled.

“Let me look at that.” A Grey Warden sidled up to Muiri, a long red braid draped across her shoulder. She took Muiri’s hand and examined the finger. She fished in her pouch for a moment and produced a suture needle and thread. Her brow furrowed, casting a shadow into her brown eyes, and cast a flame from her fingertips.

Muiri stared. Only a few Grey Warden mages had joined the Inquisition after Adamant, the others choosing to follow Alistair to Weisshaupt or seeking their penance in the Deep Roads as Ser Ruth had done. She didn’t recognize this one at all.

“That really isn’t necessary, Ser…” The surgeon’s aide trailed off as the mage shot him a withering glare. He turned away, mumbling about clean needles and mages starting fires.

The Warden waved the flame away from her hand, frowning at her singed fingertips. “I’ve never been able to get that quite right.” She threaded the needle and held it over Muiri’s hand. “My mentor in the Circle could snap flames in and out of existence without even setting off a spark. This is going to pinch, by the way.”

Muiri yelped as the needle went through the skin on her finger. She tried to pull her hand away, but the Grey Warden’s grip was firm. All the heads in the surgeon’s camp turned to stare at her. Out of the corner of her eye, Muiri saw Cullen rise and walk towards them.

“I said it would pinch.” The Warden kept sewing while Muiri bit her tongue to keep from creating a second commotion. “There. Put a bandage over it and keep it dry. You’ll be fine.”

Cradling her newly-stitched finger against her body, Muiri looked up at the Warden again. “Thank you, Ser—”

She brushed a few stray strands of hair away from her face. “I should go around dressed like a scout more often. I don’t think I’ve been called Ser since the Blight.”

A body pushed past her. “You’re here!” Leliana said, embracing the Warden. Muiri stared blankly; this was a side of Leliana she had never seen, not even with Josephine. “Inquisitor, this is Solana Amell, Warden-Commander of Ferelden.”

Muiri’s eyes grew wider. “Wait, _you’re_ the Hero of Ferelden?” She turned to Leliana. “I thought we didn’t know where she was.”

Another Warden approached, removing his helmet. “We didn’t,” Alistair said. He traced his hand down the Warden-Commander’s back as she broke from Leliana’s hug.

Solana shook him off. “Can we talk about this inside? I need a bath. And someone should tell Cullen to close his mouth before he attracts flies.”

Muiri cast a glance towards where Cullen had stopped dead in his tracks, halfway between her and the struggling templar. Indeed, his mouth was hanging agape. He shut it once he realized Muiri was looking at him, blushed, and returned to his vigil.

~

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” the Warden-Commander said, taking a long swig of the hoppy beer in her mug. “Most of the Orlesian Wardens don’t know me by sight, so when Alistair wrote to me about Clarel’s plan, I went to Adamant on my own.”

“You were there?” Muiri asked, studying the pitchers in front of her before deciding on more wine. The two glasses she’d had already were starting to go to her head. In the time it took Solana and Alistair to wash off the road dirt and speak with Blackwall, Leliana had thrown together an impromptu party for them. Cullen was seated beside Muiri, invited to the table by the mage herself. And he was deliberately avoiding looking at Solana.

Solana nodded, her thumb resting thoughtfully on her lips before she licked away froth from her freezing Ferelden ale. “As a soldier. A mage might be stopped on the road, and we all saw what Clarel did to hers, but no one questions a woman who can handle a sword.”

Her eyes were fully focused on Cullen at the end of the sentence, and out of the corner of her eye, Muiri saw Cullen’s face go red again. Across from him, Alistair momentarily scowled, casting a glance at his companion before signaling a servant and asking for more cheese.

The conversation turned towards a reminiscence of the Blight, interspersed with gossip regarding the recently-departed Morrigan. Muiri took her glass and excused herself, ducking through the abandoned parlor, hoping the mountain evening would cut through the fog building in her brain.

The cold washed over her and cleared her mind slightly. As her eyes adjusted to the evening shadows, Muiri slipped across the bridge towards Cullen’s office, cutting through it to reach the ramparts over the stables. Leaning on the edge of the parapet, she took another sip of wine, rolling the dry ruby liquid around on her tongue before swallowing it down.

When was the last time she allowed herself to get drunk? Apart from whatever horrible alcohol the Iron Bull gave her after a dragon fight, the source of a hangover so powerful she spent most of the following day vomiting into nearly every shrub in the Emerald Graves.

She liked the way the wine slipped through her, as though it turned her muscles to liquid and erased her reservations. She’d gone to Solas that way once, attempting to entice him into, well, anything, but it only ended in another round of words that ultimately left her frustrated and alone in her bed.

“Maker’s breath, she’s only gotten bolder since the last time I saw her,” Cullen said suddenly, leaning on the parapet next to her. His breath smelled strongly of ale. “Apparently I have a type. Based on no evidence at all.”

Muiri took another sip from her glass and raised her eyebrows, silently encouraging him to go on.

“It’s good to see that she’s alive but…Maker help me. She makes things complicated. She always makes things complicated.” He sighed. “Never mind. She’s a distraction. Nothing more.”

“Well, it’s good thing you have your work.” Muiri said, eyeing the last mouthful in her glass. She couldn’t bring herself to finish it and set the glass on the stones next to her feet. “Once she leaves tomorrow, there will be nothing to distract you.”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

Muiri looked up to see Cullen’s head turned directly towards her. He was close. Too close.

The air between them felt as thin as the Veil felt that night in the glade. The fire, the lightning that flooded her before, pressed between him and the wall, was there again. She took a deep breath, trying to force the air in-between the wine and found she didn’t want to. The liquid that replaced her muscles slid her forwards, reminding her of how bold she could be when she wanted to. Not as the Inquisitor, but as Muiri.

But he’d called her a distraction. That was _his_ word for it.

The feeling was gone, and Muiri blinked to find herself face to face with Cullen, so close that a hair’s breadth closer would have brought them into the kiss she so desperately wanted from him.

She picked up the wine glass and slid past him. “I should go.”

His hand, rough with the remnants of a scab from their misadventure on the bridge, caught her wrist, pulling her back to him. Cullen’s face pressed in to hers, and there it was. The fire, the lightning, all summoned again. Some part of her felt her grasp on the glass loosen, let it fall to the stones and shatter, spilling shards and wine around them.

“You are a distraction,” Cullen whispered as he pulled away. “But the kind I want.”


	6. Chapter 6

“And did you see the way that Hawke’s Warden friend -- what was his name again? -- was positively  _ glowering _ at Cullen when they left this morning?” Dorian mimicked Alistair’s expression. “If looks could kill, Knight-Captain Rylen would have found himself with a shiny new promotion.”

The Grey Wardens had left with Blackwall that morning, and Muiri took the opportunity to assemble a team and make for the Deep Roads herself. Cullen had offered to join the party, to survey the progress made on the Storm Coast, but Josephine and Leliana insisted the Inquisitor would be fine on her own, and that matters at Skyhold required his attention. Scout Harding rode out with them, though, on a dappled pony that matched Varric’s.

Cassandra made a disgusted noise. Muiri couldn’t tell whether it was directed at Dorian’s speculations or her displeasure with the company she was keeping in general. It had been an impulsive choice, inviting Cassandra along, but she needed time away from the castle and Muiri needed a strong sword arm if they were going to face darkspawn.

“He’s jealous,” Scout Harding piped up from the rear. “Warden-Commander Amell, er, spent the night with Cullen once, after she and Alistair had a fight.”

“What?” Muiri pulled back on her reins and turned to stare at the scout. “How did you hear that?” She thought back to how easily the Solana Amell had made Cullen blush the night before.

“Wishing you’d talked to her more now, Thorny?” Varric asked, reaching for his hip flask. He’d begrudgingly agreed to go to the Deep Roads and was apparently making good on his threat to drink the entire time. “I bet we could chase them down; the road to Amaranthine hasn’t split off yet.”

Another disgusted noise echoed back from the head of their small party.

Harding smiled shyly. “Sister Leliana taught me a little bit of bardcraft. I listened at her door for a while last night.”

Dorian pressed his hand to his chest in mock horror. “Scout Harding, you shock me. What other scandalous little secrets have you become privy to?”

“Nothing I can share here,” she said. Muiri caught her wink at Dorian out of the corner of her eye. “Maybe when we make camp.”

Cassandra turned back, irritation etched on her face. “We’d make much better time without talking.”

Their humors dimmed slightly and the band rode in silence. Muiri mulled over Harding’s revelation. Cullen’s feelings for Solana Amell were apparent, but at the same time, Muiri was the one he’d kissed out on the ramparts last night. She absently brushed her lips with her hand, remembering the kiss and the sting of the words that followed, an unintentional echo of her last fight with Solas.

“Copper for your thoughts, Inquisitor?” Harding pulled alongside Muiri. The top of her head bobbed near Muiri’s waist, thanks to the combined stature of Harding and the pony.

“Just…” Muiri shrugged, though she was sure Harding couldn’t see her. “Just thinking.”

“I didn’t upset you, did I?” Harding kept her voice low and her eyes trained on Cassandra’s back. “I know you’ve been spending more time with Commander Cullen lately, but I didn’t think--”

“It’s fine, Harding.” Muiri winced at her tone, sharper than she’d intended. 

Harding nodded and gathered her reins. “If it’s all right with you, Inquisitor, I’ll ride ahead and meet our contacts at the lift. We should be there before sundown if we keep this pace.” She pressed her heels into the pony’s sides and took off. Muiri was impressed at how fast the creature could move, but Horsemaster Dennet had promised the Inquisition his best.

A steady rainfall picked up as they approached the Storm Coast, and Muiri wished she’d brought a different overcoat. The rain was soaking through the treated ram leather and the samite shirt beneath. She could hear echoes of Dorian’s muttering; his sentiments matched her own.

They reached the fissure and found Harding waiting on a newly-constructed platform. “The lift is nearly complete, Inquisitor. No darkspawn trouble yet, but the miners say the earthquakes have been brutal.”

Muiri dismounted her horse and handed the reins to a waiting scout. The elf led her horse away, gathering the others in turn. “Josephine said we were to meet a Shaper Valta?”

Varric grunted at the mention of the Shaper. Muiri resisted the urge to snort. As much as he complained about Cassandra, he’d picked up a few of her habits. Cassandra rolled her eyes and pushed aside her dripping bangs.

Harding tilted her head towards the structure. A winch was turning, slowly pulling a platform to the surface. “She’s waiting below. Orzammar dwarves have rules about coming to the surface.”

Varric continued to grumble under his breath. The dwarves working the winch turned and whistled. 

“The lift’s ready,” Harding said. “I’ll write Leliana and let them know I saw you off. If you establish a camp near the lift, I’ll see if I can talk the Orzammar dwarves into letting a ‘cloudgazer’ wait for you there.” She shivered. “Anything’s better than this storm, even the Deep Roads.

They climbed onto the lift, which groaned under their combined weight. Muiri whispered a silent prayer of thanks that she’d decided to leave the Iron Bull behind. It didn’t feel like the frame could hold the four of them plus two dwarves. Bull nearly weighed more than Muiri, Varric, Dorian, and Cassandra combined.

“Try not to shift around, and keep back from the edge.” Harding adjusted her posture. “It’s a long way down.”

“Thanks,” Muiri muttered as she looked at the endless pit extending just beyond her toes. A lump of bile began to climb up her throat. She swallowed it a second before the lift lurched and began speeding into the chasm below. 

Varric coughed. “This reminds me of a story.”

“Everything reminds you of a story,” Cassandra muttered, both hands gripping a post.

“It’s about an impossibly handsome dwarf and his friend who got crowned King of the Nugs.” Varric continued, ignoring her.

Cassandra made a disgusted grunt. “A nug king?”

Varric shrugged, “It’s not as good as it sounds. Nugs mostly just shit on the floor and roll in it. Welcome to the Deep Roads.”

They kept falling until finally Dorian asked, “Is it just me, or is this the slowest lift ever constructed?”

“We could climb,” Muiri offered, keeping her eyes shut. She didn’t want to tempt her stomach any further.

Dorian gave a hollow laugh. “I could do with some music. Maybe something with a flute?”

Cassandra warned the party of raw lyrium as the lift slid into place. Muiri shivered, thinking of the withdrawing templars at Skyhold. She was more worried about darkspawn, but lyrium shakes were not of the list of things she wanted to deal with. She flexed her stitched finger, feeling the enchanted thread expand and contract along her joints. One of the surgeon’s aides had charmed it before they left. Muiri wished he’d been able to simply mend her finger, but the surgeon wouldn’t allow it.

A tiny dwarf with black hair was recording names as they approached. “Shaper Valta?” Muiri asked.

“Atrast Vala, Inquisitor.” Valta turned and bowed her head. “The Shaperate welcomes you to the Deep Roads.”

Varric grunted again. “I hate ‘real’ dwarves.”

Valta ignored him. “The situation has worsened since we contacted Skyhold.”

~~

“How long have we been down here, do you think?” Dorian asked idly. He was waving his hands around the campfire, making the flames’ reflections dance along the cavern’s walls. Muiri blinked back sleep. She’d been dreaming about walking through the Bastion of the Pure alone, though she couldn’t shake the feeling of being followed.

Valta was huddled in the corner. The firelight lit shadows of tear trails on her cheeks, but she was still studying the lyrium etchings on the wall.

“A week?” Muiri said finally.  “We lost Renn two days ago. Probably.”

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen the sun, I can hardly tell anymore,” Dorian sighed. 

Valta crossed back to them. “We must be nearing the source of the earthquakes.”

“Well let’s get going then,” Dorian stood and stretched, then nodded his head towards Cassandra and Varric’s still-sleeping forms. “Shall we leave them, or do you want to listen to their lovers’ spats the rest of the way down?”

Muiri reached over and gently shoved Cassandra’s shoulder, then crossed to Varric and did the same. They broke camp quickly, packing what little had made it this far in less than ten minutes. They’d left so much with the Legion of the Dead, and then again in Heidrun Thaig.

Valta was right. They hadn’t walked more than a half hour when the cavern broke open, revealing an enormous underground spring. Using their guide’s stone sense and her path through the pulses, and their shared revelation of the titan, they pushed ahead through waves of Sha-Brytol.

Finally, finally, the made it to the center of the wellspring. Valta fell to her knees, panting, “If I don’t survive, Orzammar must know the truth.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Muiri said, pulling Valta back to her feet. “You’ve come this far. We kill this...thing, we stop the earthquakes, and we all go home. We’re going to make it.”

Dorian chuckled. “That’s remarkably optimistic of you.” He threw a burst of fire at two straggling Sha-Brytol, chasing them away.

“Be careful,” Cassandra said, raising her sword to a guard. “If this it the titan, and that’s it’s heart, we can assume that it’s raw lyrium.”

The words were no sooner out of her mouth than a pulse of energy shook the bridge, separating Valta from the rest of the group. Rocks piled behind them and pulled in towards the center. The lyrium heart gathered itself together into something resembling a golem. 

“Any ideas, Seeker?” Varric yelled as he pulled Bianca off his back. A rock tentacle swooped above his head. “Other than avoiding those things?”

“Don’t let it touch you!” Cassandra answered, rushing in towards the heart. Muiri chased after her, both daggers in hand. Cassandra’s shield blocked for both of them and they took turns stabbing at the golem's lyrium core. Flames flew in waves around them, and Muiri could almost keep time to the clockwork shots from Bianca. She lost herself in running, ducking, stabbing, until over the din she head Dorian’s panicked cry for help.

She jutted her head away from the golem. “Help him! I can finish this.”

Cassandra’s gaze held Muiri’s own for a second, then she raised her shield to buffet against the golem’s flailing tentacles and sprinted towards the falling mage. Muiri jumped, arching both daggers into the cracking heart and leaned into her fall, imagining herself as a snake with twin fangs. She pierced into the heart, causing its hard, crystalline shell to shatter. A giant wave of brilliant blue flew at her.

~~

_ “Drowning, twisting, screaming. I need more. The song is dying.” The boy looked up, his eyes barely visible beneath the wide brim of his hat. His hands continued to weave a chain of flowers. “She’s in pain.” _

_ He spoke to a silhouette, an angular figure standing intently before a shimmering mirror. It was antique, looking out of place and, at the same time, like it perfectly fit the glade around them. _

_ “Go to her,” the figure said finally. “Ease her pain.” _

_ The boy vanished, leaving only the sound of rushing air filling the space where he once sat. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay between chapters. I've had less time to write in recent months (and it will continue to be so, unfortunately) due to taking on a lot of overtime at work. I'm hoping to put out at least one chapter per month from here on out.


	7. Chapter 7

The world was a brilliant blue and she was swimming through it. And it was singing to her. Calling to her. The song was a lullaby, pulling her slowly to its source, whispering in her ears, brushing along her skin, echoing at the back of her mind. Muiri felt herself stretching her hand out, trying to sink deeper into the wellspring and its song. Its current flowed through her and she was sure that she could build a new world around her, one made of just her and the beautiful blue song.

And then the song shifted. Melodic tones became the endless howl of wolves, a pack circling as the brilliant blue swiftly darkened to the sky at midnight. Muiri shivered, circling as the shadowed forms crept ever closer, merging into one solitary wolf, the size of a man, the pack’s cry deepening into a single guttural growl. The wolf leapt at her.

_ Think of light.  _

Muiri blinked at the unbidden thought, a voice she didn’t recognize. But no one was there, just her and the wolf.

_ Think of light _ .

She forced herself to think of fires at her clan’s camps, candles stretching through the halls of the Winter Palace, sunlight glittering through the windows in her room at Skyhold, the eerie red glow of the Deep Roads.

Muiri blinked again. No. That last one was real. She was in a bedroll in the Legion of the Dead’s campsite, the characteristic red glow of the dwarven ruins supported by a roaring fire. And then the cold hit her. A deep, pervasive cold that cut to her bones, harsher than the deepest winter, sharper than the ice that whipped past her face as she crawled out of Haven’s avalanche. The fire was there, right before her eyes and yet she felt none of its warmth. 

A small blue vial was thrust between her lips. “Maker help me, he’ll kill me for this,” Dorian whispered. Muiri tried to open her mouth to ask who but before she could find the words, she was back in the singing blue world, a lullaby slowly pulling her to sleep.

The next time she awoke she saw weak morning light streaming through her Skyhold windows for real, so many blankets piled on top of her she could barely see the curve of her form beneath their weight. They pressed down firmly, keeping her nearly bound. And yet, even with the weight of so much wool piled up on her, she still shivered. And she was thirsty. By the creators, she was thirsty. She stretched out an arm from beneath the giant pile.

“Don’t.”  A large, rough hand rested on top of her own. Muiri tilted her head to see Cullen stretching from a chair next to her bed. His hair was disheveled and he was stripped down to just a tunic and breeches. Shadows hung below his bleary eyes and several days of growth traced his jawline. He picked up her hand and clasped it between his own. Muiri knew his hand should feel warm, but it was just as frozen as everything else. 

After a moment, Cullen set her hand down again and stood. Gently, he began peeling back the giant pile of blankets until only two remained. Muiri’s shivers intensified and she wrapped her arms around herself, curling into a ball. “What’s happening to me?”

Cullen’s hands slipped beneath her slender frame and eased her to sitting, draping a thick wool blanket over her shoulders. “Mother Giselle should be here soon. She usually comes by after breakfast.” He sat back in his chair and rubbed his face.

Muiri clenched her teeth to keep from chattering and looked around the room. There was no fire in the hearth and a balcony door at the far end of the room was propped open. She flipped the blanket over her head, creating a makeshift hood, and pulled the remaining fabric tighter around her body. She was about to repeat her question when she heard the door to her chambers open below.

Mother Giselle swept into the room bearing a tray of food, followed by a page carrying a full kettle. Her business-like expression softened when she saw Muiri sitting upright in the bed. “Good, you’re awake.”

“Her fever hasn’t broken yet,” Cullen said, standing and ceding the chair to the Revered Mother. “It will probably take some more time.”

“So of course you freeze the poor girl out even more?” Mother Giselle shot him a stern look before seating herself. “Eat something, close that door, then build a fire.”

Her hands untangled Muiri’s blanket. “Let me look at you, child,” she said as Muiri tried to pull away, receding into her cocoon of slightly-less-cold. Muiri stopped and felt her entire body tense as Mother Giselle’s freezing hands traced her skin. “You are burning with fever still,” she said softly. “Your body is fighting for more lyrium and is trying to draw power from itself.”

She turned back to Cullen, who was tossing an orange back and forth between his hands. Now that she was sitting up, Muiri could see that he was only in his stocking feet, his boots and mantle discarded behind her desk. A pile of papers was spread across the heavy surface, but the quill was new, the ink bottle unopened.

Muiri braced herself while Mother Giselle studied the rest of her: heartbeat racing, pinprick pupils, mouth dry and lips cracked. Finally, she rose from the chair, admonished Cullen again to both eat and make the room warmer, and poured a cup of tea, which she set in Muiri’s hands before she descended the staircase with the page.

“What’s happening to me?” Muiri asked again. Cullen ignored her in favor of adding logs to the smoldering hearth and stoking the embers. Once the fire was growing to his satisfaction, he returned to the chair next to her and peeled his orange, his eyes avoiding her.

Muiri’s hands tightened around the cup. The tea was steaming and its heat pushed through the porcelain, thawing some of the ice that consumed her. She took a sip and felt the boiling liquid run through her, like spirits through the ice luges at Halamshiral. “Cullen.” 

The orange peel spiraled away from the fruit and fell to the floor. Muiri watched Cullen’s hands as they carefully pulled the segments away from one another, forcing the orange into a flower. 

Muiri took a deep breath, summoning all the strength left within her. “Commander Cullen, I order you to tell me what is happening to me.” She hated pulling rank but if he wasn’t going to answer, what other option did she have.

Cullen stared resolutely at the fruit lying opening in his hands but finally cleared his throat. “I don’t entirely understand what happened, since Dorian was raving hysterically and not making any sense, and both Cassandra and Varric’s stories were equally confusing, but it sounds like you were drenched in raw lyrium.”

He took another deep breath, then picked an orange segment and bit into it. Muiri tried not to watch as a pale trail of juice trickled into his beard. Had he shaved at all since they left? How quickly did humans beards grow anyway? It seemed like Varric shaved morning, noon, and night to keep his face from being overtaken. And Blackwall was nearly all beard.

Elves didn’t grow facial hair. Solas barely had eyebrows and his skin was smooth to the point where Muiri sometimes felt as though she was kissing the marble statues of the gods the clan carried with them. But Cullen’s face, even shaved as it was the night before she left, had felt scratchy against her own. But it was appealing. She wondered what it would be like kissing him with more.

Fenedhis. She was shivering to death under a mountain of blankets after taking a literal bath in lyrium and all she could think about was Cullen’s beard? Muiri took another cautious sip of the tea. It had cooled a bit but still forced tiny veins of heat through the cracks of her frozen insides.

Cullen swallowed and Muiri briefly caught his gaze, his whiskey brown eyes full of pain. “When you returned to Skyhold the other night, the only reason you weren’t convulsing is because Dorian was force-feeding you clarified lyrium almost hourly.” He dipped his head, again not looking at her. “You’ve been in a lyrium fever for three days.”

“It’s only been three days since we found the titan?”

The blond curls shook. “It’s been three days since you returned to Skyhold. They kept you at the Legion of the Dead’s camp until we could get a medic party two you. If I had to guess, you were being fed lyrium for nearly two weeks.”

“And since then?” Muiri asked, though she knew the answer. The tea was steadily going cold and she was regretting the loss of its warmth, but she couldn’t bring herself to move.

“I -- I cut you off.” Cullen picked up another orange segment. “You were already in withdrawal. The fever doesn’t usually last more than a day or two, but with the amount of raw lyrium you probably took in and the quantity Dorian gave you over a short period of time, it’s as Mother Giselle said.”

Muiri nodded. “And then what?”

“Once the fever breaks, you’ll probably still feel ill for a while,” Cullen said between orange segments. “Shaky, sick to your stomach, but those will pass. Then it’s just learning to fight the cravings.”

“How long until they go away?” Muiri took another sip of her tea and grimaced. It was cold. Maybe she should have recruited the rebel mages back in the early days. She could have assigned one to keep her tea warm.

Cullen’s eyes met her own and he held her gaze. “They don’t.”

He palmed the remaining orange into one hand and held out the other, gesturing with it to Muiri’s teacup. She handed it over, her fingers brushing against his, faintly sticky from the drying orange juice. She resisted pulling her hands to her face in order to smell them. Cullen downed the remaining cold tea in one and set the cup on the tray. The sound of the porcelain settling on the metal tray was drowned by a slamming door and thundering footsteps, one pair quick and purposeful, the other heavy and lumbering.

“You’re awake!” Varric gasped between heavy breaths. He reached his arm out to blockade the rest of the stairs. “I tried to keep Sparkler out, but he insisted on following me.”

“If it weren’t for me, we’d all still be in that blasted cavern cutting open lyrium veins and hoping someone would find us,” Dorian protested. He lifted his drape and jumped over Varric’s outstretched arm. Varric glared at the mage and followed him into the room.

Cullen stood up suddenly and smoothed his shirt, muttering a string of words together that sounded very much like “Josephine” and “reports”.

“Yes, yes, get out of here,” Dorian said. He crossed the room to Cullen’s vacant chair and plopped down into it. He twitched his nose and made a face. “And take a bath while you’re at this. You smell awful.”

“Thank you,” Cullen said, shoving the rest of the orange into his mouth. He gathered his boots and greatcoat and hurried down the stairs without so much as a “goodbye”. Muiri frowned at his sudden absence.

“Talk about self-important,” Dorian said. He removed his boots and propped his feet up on the edge of Muiri’s bed. “ _ I’ll _ watch her.  _ I _ know what to look for.  _ I  _ can protect her.” He snorted, pleased with his impression. “As if I hadn’t spent the entire trip back trying to do just that.”

Varric jumped onto the opposite end and rested his back against the footboard. He glanced from Dorian’s stocking feet to his own, still clad in boots, then to Muiri, his eyes questioning. She shrugged. Someone would clean it. It would give her a reason to get out of the bed. If she could manage it without freezing to death.

She turned back to Dorian. “You tried to save me,” Muiri said, gesturing to the faint blue vials hanging from his belt.

“Yes, well someone has to lead our merry little band of misfits, and you’re much more agreeable than Cassandra.” Dorian pulled the vials and stashed them between the folds of his drape. “Though I would recommend against going to Orzammar any time soon. I had to make several unpleasant threats to the Legion and their creditors in order to get enough lyrium to keep you alive until we reached the surface and still be useful myself.”

“Don't try to reach the Merchant’s Guild either,” Varric said dryly. “I had to call in a few favors to soothe ruffled feathers.”

Muiri once again pulled the blankets tight around her, hoping to capture some fugitive warmth she remembered from the tea. Dorian looked at the teapot next to him and poured another cup. He passed his hand over the liquid a few times until steam began to rise from it, then held it out to Muiri. It took her a moment to untangle herself before she could take it again.

“So, did Curly say how long it would take before you can roam the countryside again?” Varric asked. “Because I could use another reason to put off returning to Kirkwall, especially after this mess.”

Muiri held the cup close to her face, letting the steam wash over it. It was very localized, just where the warm tendrils reached out and brushed against her, but she felt the tiniest bits of warmth on her skin. After relishing it for a moment, she told them what Cullen had said.

“Well, if you decide you need someone to attend you in your convalescence,” Dorian said, pulling his feet back to the floor. “Send a runner to us. I’m sure between the two of us, we can supply you with all the dirty books in Skyhold. If you’re going to be stuck in bed, you may as well read about all the fun and delightful things you could be doing there.”

If Muiri hadn’t been so focused on staying warm, she would have thrown a pillow at him.


End file.
